


Explosion

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Blood and Injury, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Post-Book: Checkmate, Prompt Fill, Spoilers, WW2 AU, War, in that if you haven't finished checkmate...just don't read this, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: A meet-cute of sorts, where secret identities are shed during an emergency.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, 2 October 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188083039067/whumptober-day-2)

The truck's engine revved in complaint as they bounced through ruts in the dried mud road. The injured man in the back laughed at the pain as his head hit the metal floor through the jumper cushioning him. His rescuer kneeled above him, knees splayed to keep her balance as she held onto the truck's sides and yelled at the driver.

"Eh, conard! Tu conduis comme une espèce de plouc!"

Her ash blonde curls bobbed with the movement of the vehicle, flying ragged and free from the corduroy bandeau she wore. La Bleuette had been his courier in the LINGUIST circuit in Bordeaux for the past year, known only to him by this nickname - given for the colour of her eyes when she was angry - and by a sharp intellect, ever-ready with a cover story or a line to feed the occupiers. Her field-craft put the men in his circuit to shame, and her French was impeccable - and filthy.

Francis Rankin Crawford let out another joyous bark as she chewed out the driver. Between the bumps and bruises and bone-jarring ride he could forget about blood loss and the shrapnel in his upper arm. The explosion had shattered his radio and filled him with hot speckles of plastic and metal, but La Bleuette had come back for him, knotted her silk map around his bloodied bicep, and dragged him to the vehicle.

They were speeding west, racing for the coast and a fishing boat that would get them out of France. Who knew what would come afterwards, when he would be back in the field, and where she would be sent. He wanted, at the very least, to know her real name.

The plaintive touch of his hand on her leg made La Bleuette look down, her lips pressed together, expression alarmed.

"S'il vous plaît, ma mie. Donnez-moi votre nom."

The colour was high in her face, her blush like two pink thumbprints on her fine cheekbones. But she smiled, and with a surprising Lanarkshire purr she leaned down a little to speak over the sound of the engine.

"Sibylla Semple. Pleased to make your acquaintance."


End file.
